Metal Gear Solid:The Killer Angel
by NormandyAlive
Summary: The events of The Shadow Moses Island incident through the eyes of Meryl Silverburgh, following from her escape from the holding cells.


Meryl stumbled into the snowfield. Numb physically and mentally. The scent of sulfur and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood hanging about her like a pall. The cold, fresh air did little to help. Her head pounded. Her stomach ached, twisting and contorting as it tied itself in knots. Meryl whipped off her balaclava and brushed tufts of sweaty, matted ginger hair from her brow. A small opening between two electrical junction boxes made a nice perch. With trembling hands she set the butt of her Famas into the snow, a steady stream of smoke still billowing from the barrel.

The world drifted away from her as she gazed at the magazine. The thought of each bullet she'd fired cutting through the air. Tearing through the bodies of those men. The screams of pain. The spraying and oozing of blood. The look on their faces. That empty, vacant look. Their milky-white, lifeless eyes staring back at her. She was a killer. She'd killed. But it was nothing like what she'd been lead to believe. It was nothing like in the training operations. It was nothing like in the simulations. Her mind skipped back to when she'd first enlisted. She sat eagerly with the receiver in her hand, the dial tone ringing out. The metal plate hanging above the phone, sharp, crisp letters giving a clear warning 'Loose lips sink ships – you are being recorded'. Her mother answered the phone after a few short rings and Meryl had hurridly told her how she'd performed in her first simulated mission. She told her mother how many 'combatants' she killed. How she'd the highest accuracy in the squad. Her mother reacted in shock; 'killed?" her mother questioned. Her mother asked her if the idea of killing really made Meryl so happy. If she really understood what she was doing. If she knew what she was doing to her mother. She told Meryl that she'd already lost her husband, Meryl's father, to war. How she couldn't bare to lose Meryl too. How even Meryl's cold, careless way of talking was breaking her heart. But Meryl didn't listen. Each negative remark, each plea to come home had just hardened Meryl's resolve and her longing to push on. But now, sitting prostrate alone in an icy snowfield, alone and trembling, dry heaving and crying Meryl finally understood what her mother was trying to tell to her. All she wanted now was to go home, to see her mother. To tell her that she was right. That she'd missed her. She'd hug her and tell her that she'd never leave her again. Never break her heart. Never.

A crisp wind rustled the field, calling Meryl back to her senses. Icy tears ran from her eyes to her neck in glistening trails. Her lower lip trembled. She pulled her balaclava back on, wretching as the sweaty, blood-spattered fabric came to rest over her nostrils. She pushed all her thoughts to the back of her head. Pathetic. That was the old Meryl talking. Those were the words and thoughts of a child. Not the words of a soldier. She was a soldier, trained and honed for battle. It was normal to feel uneasy, queasy or even doubtful after a first kill. She knew that. She'd read that. Time to give 'em hell she thought. Rising back to her feet she grabbed her Famas and with one sharp blow cleared the last lingering pillar of smoke from the end of the barrel.

Meryl pushed through the snow drifts on her way back to the armoury. A blot on the horizon caught her attention and she changed course. Pushing through waist-deep drifts the charred, smoking hull of an M3 tank came into view on a flat ridge. Meryl stood in awe scanning over the wreck. A few feet from the shattered hull a charred body lay semi-obscured by snowfall. The prisoner from the holding cells flashed in her mind. The one who resembled Liquid. Had he done this? Meryl gulped. He'd had her clear in his sights, his Socom pointed, trained perfectly between her two eyes. He could have killed her at any minute. She thought she had the situation under control, that she had the upper hand. But if he was capable of this, of taking on and destroying a tank on his own then he really was a cut above. Something else. Something terrifying. He could have killed her. But he chose to mock her instead, cheekily taunting her. The feel of his sharp, discerning gaze cutting through her. She'd looked them both in the eye. She'd met Liquid when she was taken prisoner, he came with the strange, gaunt man to interrogate her after she'd been locked up. But after they figured that she was of no real intelligence or tactical value they'd left her alone and focused their attention solely on the DARPA chief. But in that moment, as he questioned Meryl she'd gazed on his face. Looked in his eyes. Both Liquid and the man from the cells had that same cold, dead look in their eyes. As if their eyes were simply painted on. They both also had that relaxed, blank expression and that cocky smirk. It was chilling.

Meryl freed the magazine from her Famas. One bullet.

"This one's for you, Liquid," Meryl muttered to herself as she turned on her heels and pushed on.


End file.
